Yoo Joonghyuk
Joonghyuk sighed as he sat down, flipping open his journal. He had started it because of him. Every important moment, every fleeting thought—it was all here, written in ink that felt too permanent yet never enough. From the first time they met to the way it felt to hold him, to the realization that Kim Dokja had become the most important person in his life.
He traced a finger over the pages, pausing at the entry about their first meeting.
He had been late to orchestra that day, rounding a corner too fast, only to crash into someone—a man covered in paint, like he had walked straight out of a canvas. Joonghyuk had barely spared him a glance, too focused on getting to class. But Dokja had other plans.
“Aren’t you going to help me up? Or at least apologize?” he had huffed.
Joonghyuk had wanted to ignore him, to keep running—but his pride had gotten in the way. He had turned back, helped him up, and given him a half-hearted apology.
The same half-hearted apology he had given to the man who would become his everything.
Joonghyuk chuckled at the memory. He had unknowingly composed his first hit song based on that moment. Not that he had ever planned on publishing it. It had started as nothing more than idle nostalgia—his fingers absentmindedly moving over the strings of his violin. But the melody had flowed out of him before he even realized what was happening.
The song had come in bursts—quick and rushed at first, like frantic footsteps against pavement. Then a sudden jolt, a shift into something softer, irritation melting into something else entirely. The notes popped like splashes of color against a blank canvas.
When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself breathless. His heart pounded as if he had just run through that moment all over again.
When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself breathless. His heart pounded as if he had just run through that moment all over again.
Did Dokja still think about him the way he thought about him?
A sharp sound cut through his thoughts.
Clapping.
Joonghyuk turned, already sighing as Han Sooyoung, his manager, leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at her lips.
"Why haven’t you played this for me yet?" she demanded. "This is going to be a hit."
Joonghyuk exhaled, trying to steady himself. "I just created it," he replied, his voice carefully monotone, masking the emotions still thrumming in his chest. "Hard to play something for you when I didn’t even know I could play it myself."
Sooyoung didn’t seem to notice how his hands still trembled with adrenaline. "Well, come on. Write it down and refine it," she said, already pulling out her phone, probably to schedule something he hadn’t agreed to yet.
Joonghyuk glanced down at his hands, still unsteady from the weight of something he couldn’t name.
He sighed. Looks like this song wasn’t staying in his journal after all.
When his song was released, it became an instant hit—just as Sooyoung had predicted. She had advertised it to high hell, making sure the entire world heard it. But Joonghyuk only cared about one person.
Did he hear it?
Joonghyuk sighed, running a hand through his hair. He told himself he would stop making songs about him. Thinking about him was wearing him down, yet he kept coming back to his journal, kept composing, kept weaving a shadow of his love into every note.
Every hit was about him. Every melody haunted him.
From their first kiss to the way his laughter mixed into the stories Joonghyuk’s violin told, Dokja was in all of it.
Time passed. Success followed. When Joonghyuk finally moved into a new apartment, he found himself restless, staring at all the empty space. He tried to fill it, scrolling through original paintings online, searching for something to make the walls feel less bare.
A breathtaking painting—just like the sky that day.
The sky from their summer fling. Except, to Joonghyuk, it had never been just a fling.
He remembered it vividly: Jeju Island, the sunsets bursting in wild streaks of orange, pink, and blue, melting into the sea like a watercolor dream. The painting captured it exactly. His breath hitched.
Without thinking, without even checking the artist, he bought it.
When it arrived, it was massive—as if the artist had tried to relive the moment on canvas, to stretch time across the surface. And when Joonghyuk saw the signature, his chest tightened.
Dokja.
The listing had credited it to an anonymous artist, but Joonghyuk knew. Deep down, he knew.
He exhaled, fingers grazing the edge of the frame.
What if I stopped trying to forget him?
What if I tried to reach him instead?
And so, he played.
For the time they spent in Jeju. For the late nights where they kept each other company, lingering in doorways, hands brushing. For the quiet mornings, for the soft nights they spent tangled in each other’s beds (if you know what I mean, wink wink)
He played—not for fame, not for the audience, but for the chance that maybe, just maybe, Dokja was listening.
Each note a call.
Each melody a memory.
Each song a yearning for a moment in time where everything was.
Joonghyuk exhaled softly as he finished composing his last song for Dokja. Ironic, really—his final song was about missing him, about the empty days that followed after he left. As he played the last note, years of unshed tears finally slipped free, trailing warm against his skin.
He sighed, stepping onto the stage. The final concert of his tour. He had hoped—foolishly, desperately—to see Dokja in the crowd, but after scanning countless faces at every stop, he had all but given up.
His breath caught in his throat.
There.
Among thousands of faces, Joonghyuk found him.
Even after all these years, he recognized him instantly. He would recognize him in every lifetime, across every universe. Even if everything else changed, Dokja’s soul would shine through.
Without thinking, Joonghyuk spoke into the mic, his voice unsteady.
"I'm sorry. Every single song is about you.”
The crowd roared, but he barely heard them. His eyes never left Dokja.
"I made this new song for you.”
Dokja's expression froze—shock, disbelief. As though he had never realized. As though he hadn’t known all this time that every note, every melody, had been about him.
Joonghyuk lowered his gaze to his violin and began to play.
The song started low and aching, the weight of loneliness woven into each note. Then, a shift—determination, the moment he decided to reach him through music. Finally, the crescendo—soaring, euphoric, the feeling of seeing him again. A high, triumphant ending.
When he played the final note, his chest heaved, breathless from the weight of it all. He looked up.
Dokja was crying.
Tears streaked down his face as if he had felt everything Joonghyuk poured into the song, every unspoken word transformed into music.
Joonghyuk finally moved, stepping forward—then, suddenly, he was sobbing. He didn’t care about the crowd, didn’t care how they saw him. All that mattered was this.
He had finally felt Dokja’s gaze on him again.
Joonghyuk picked up the mic, his face streaked with tears, his voice raw.
"Tell me, you fool—if I keep making music for you, will I see you again?”
The moment the words left his lips, he saw it—Dokja crumpling to the ground, sobs wracking his body. The sight of him, so utterly broken, sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over Joonghyuk. But before he could move, before he could reach him, staff rushed in, ushering him backstage as the concert came to an end.
Waiting for him was Sooyoung, arms crossed, her expression a mix of exasperation and concern.
"Now, what the hell was that about?" she asked, voice sharp but eyes soft.
Joonghyuk didn't respond, still trying to steady his breath.
She sighed. "I’ve managed you for years. Every event, every drop, every damn press conference—and I’ve never seen you break down like that." A pause. Then, softer, "You should've told me if you were going through something. You know I would've helped.”
She reached out. "Come here.”
It wasn’t just an offer—it was a command, one he didn’t have the energy to refuse. As she pulled him into a hug, he realized how badly he needed it. He let himself sink into it, grounding himself in the quiet understanding she offered.
Then, movement caught his eye.
Over Sooyoung’s shoulder, past the flurry of staff and security, he saw him.
Dokja.
Joonghyuk sucked in a breath, his entire body going still. Dokja was trying to get through, stopped only by the guards blocking his way. His face was flushed, his breaths uneven, his eyes—
God, his eyes.
Like stars scattered across a dark night sky, searching, desperate.
Joonghyuk pulled away from Sooyoung, stumbling slightly as he crossed the wooden floor. "Let him in," he ordered the guards, his voice hoarse.
They hesitated but obeyed, stepping aside.
And then, finally, they were face to face.
For the first time in years, Joonghyuk could see every detail—the shape of his lips, the slight tremble of his shoulders, the way his breath hitched as they stood mere inches apart.
There was no hesitation.
Joonghyuk surged forward, crashing into him, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.
It was desperate, messy, the kind of kiss that tasted of lost time, of longing too heavy to be put into words. Joonghyuk could feel his hands clutching at him, as if afraid he’d disappear again.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads touching, breaths mingling, Joonghyuk whispered, voice trembling, "You are as beautiful as the day you left me.”
Dokja let out a shaky breath, eyes glistening.
"I never forgot you," he whispered back. "I never meant to leave you the way I did."